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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013493">putting monsters to bed</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaves/pseuds/xaves'>xaves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Perry Mason (TV 2020), Perry Mason - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dom/sub Undertones, Happy Ending, M/M, PWP, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, brief peripheral mention of perry's ptsd, no beta we die like men, perry mason is an absolute wreck of a gutterman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:14:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaves/pseuds/xaves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Aren’t-” Mason says haltingly, voice loud, grating, sandpaper-y in the quiet, velvety black. He feels drunk on the shivers that Ham is drawing out of him. Light-headed as a fucking balloon. “Shouldn’t you be asking if I’ve done this before?”</p><p>“Mason,” Hamilton starts to murmur with the air of long-suffering patience, and there it is again, that near-laughter in his clipped consonants and elegant intonations. “There’s nothing about you that isn’t clearly written on your face, your clothes, or your private record. If I thought you had done this before, I would have already fucked you.”</p><p>or: Perry Mason studies for the bar exam. Hamilton offers an alternative.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hamilton Burger/Perry Mason</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I don't know who watched Matthew Rhys's Perry Mason meet Justin Kirk's Hamilton Burger and DIDN'T think they fucked, but I am not one of them. If you're here for utter filth but just the prelude, chapter 1 is for you. If you'd like the PWP that I couldn't resist tagging on, then by god, proceed to chapter 2, friend.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes more than a night, more than two. He’s stuck with Hamilton for <em>ten</em> whole fucking days, studying law and cases from the man’s absurdly precise memory like his life (<em>Emily’s life</em>) depends on it. They can’t keep meeting in diners, so eventually, Perry gets Ham to make the drive to his farmhouse.</p><p>As it so happens, Hamilton takes one look at the disarray (except he <em>cleaned</em>, <em>honestly</em>, fucking <em>tidied</em> and everything-), lips thinning into a barely restrained look of disgust, and Mason decides, y’know, <em>fuck it</em>, the man has a two bedroom in downtown LA, why the hell shouldn’t they meet there?</p><p>Mason likes to consider himself a people person. Not in the sense that he <em>likes</em> people, but he sure as hell has met enough to read them, understand them. Hamilton Burger, in one way, isn’t an exception. Mason knows, for one, that they’re different.</p><p>Hamilton is expensive tailored suits in striking gray, all straight lines and sharp edges, Mason is egg stains on old ties and inherited suits that fit loose around his waist; doodles and inkblots and crumpled pages. Hamilton is calculating, to the point, and deadly as a knife when he wants to say something that will cut to the bone. Mason, on the other hand, is expletives and rambling and passion that manifests in verbal punches that have an equal chance of hitting or missing so hard he falls flat on his ass.</p><p>They don’t fit together. They’re pieces of two entirely different puzzles. And while Hamilton’s completed picture is probably some pristine painting of a mountain (because he’s <em>cold</em>, the prick hasn’t laughed <em>once</em> at any of his shitty jokes), Mason’s probably a scribble of some sad, unidentifiable swamp.</p><p>Those are the facts. Mason <em>gets</em> that. But what he doesn’t get is why Hamilton Burger continues to meet with him, night after night, to help him cheat the bar when he clearly hates him, <em>can’t</em> <em>stand him</em>, and would probably much rather be elsewhere, or at least not in his own impeccable apartment, watching Mason’s every move whenever he sits down somewhere he shouldn’t, as if Mason will leave a stain. He’s always watching, really. Studying him.</p><p>Mason can’t imagine whatever he catalogues away in that library of a brain of his is anything good.</p><p>He points this out one evening, day 5, after a solid four hour grilling session where Hamilton was the chef swatting him with a spatula and Mason steadily sizzled and stewed until he became the burnt patty that no one wanted to eat.</p><p>He is, in a word, properly <em>cooked</em>, splayed out on Hamilton’s plush leather couch, collar undone and eyelids heavy. Hamilton’s a tough teacher, unrelenting in his questions, demanding all Mason can muster between still actually preparing for Emily Dodson’s trial and piecing himself into a functioning human being everyday. And he’s intimidating, which is annoying, because Mason’s faced down cops like Innis without batting an eye but the second Hamilton’s gaze finds him, it makes his insides shrivel. Even worse, it makes him want to <em>impress</em> the asshole. Prove him wrong.</p><p>Hamilton Burger’s eyebrows go up. Politely. No actual human emotion crosses over his impossibly symmetrical face. “What are you asking me, exactly?”</p><p>“Why you’re doing this,” Mason repeats with a flick of an impatient hand that quickly returns to drag over his face. “You want me to go up against Barnes and give him one on the chin for you, that’s fine, I get that. I’d love to knock him out, myself.”</p><p>There’s no response, which Mason has learned is equivalent to a ‘yes.’ Or sometimes it’s a ‘you’re so impossibly thick in the head that i’m not going to bother responding’ but Mason would be willing to bet it’s the former this time.</p><p>“But there’s other lawyers out there. Better ones. And I know you don’t like me, so what, is it a favor for Della? Do the two of you have a bet on how fast I crash and burn?”</p><p>“You’re already aware that no other lawyer will touch this case. You’re the only one without anything to lose, what with your reputation being what it is, Mason.” Ah, Hamilton, never one to mince words. The lawyer studies him for a few seconds. Whatever he sees makes his lips twitch into a faint smile. “And I never said I don’t like you. However, if I was a betting man, I would have lost already.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Mason frowns, swallows. Hamilton’s eyes dip down a fraction. “Why’s that?”</p><p>“See, I would have bet you wouldn’t last a day, let alone five,” Hamilton says, quietly amused, then nods back to Mason’s notebook, side conversation over.</p><p>“Let’s continue.”</p><p>Asshole didn’t answer the question, though, did he?</p><p>That’s the other thing. The other odd quirk Hamilton has that he can’t place, can’t <em>identify</em>. Sometimes the man will just throw out some off-hand comment, some passing phrase that makes Mason deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Makes him squirm.</p><p>The first time had been when he had actually found a comb and attempted to tame his hair, tried to look presentable. Whatever he had managed had made Hamilton pause, made his tongue run over his teeth. Then: “You almost look appropriate, Mr. Mason. I had no idea you actually owned personal hygiene products.”</p><p>That had made the back of his neck go hot.</p><p>The second odd moment was when Mason had offhandedly asked if Ham had a missus, that first night he had stumbled into his flat that was clearly ten times his pay grade. Two bedrooms, though, one would <em>assume…</em></p><p>Hamilton had simply shrugged, “Afraid that’s not really my style.”</p><p>“What,” Mason said blankly, “Marriage? That’s-”</p><p>“Women,” Hamilton cut in smoothly, that faint, knowing twitch of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth again. Even had the audacity to continue sitting placidly in his armchair, discussing his sexual preferences like he was discussing the weather, watching Mason for his reaction.</p><p>Well, fuck, he hopes he didn’t disappoint because:</p><p>“Oh. I, uh-. <em>Well.</em> That’s. Yeah, I-I didn’t… didn’t want to-… <em>anyway,</em>” Mason fumbled, stammered, had to leave the room to clear his throat for a while, and, on the whole, felt like a profound fucking idiot for bringing it up in the first place.</p><p>It’s not that he’s not. <em>Familiar</em>. He was in the war, for godsakes. No one looked sideways if a couple of men jerked each other off in the showers once or twice, just to take the edge off. Sure, things had gotten a little handsy, and sure, even in college, he had had those typical nights of messing around with some pals and locking lips with a few of them once the drinks got flowing and his body got warmer. It wasn’t a big deal. They didn’t talk about it, he didn’t think about it, that’s just how it was.</p><p>No judgement, <em>of course -</em> who gave a shit what Ham did in his pastime, but-</p><p>But Mason does give a shit. A little bit. He finds himself giving a shit whenever Hamilton passes him something and his attention gets drawn by his huge hands and perfectly trimmed fingernails and fingers that are clearly made for playing cards or neatly turning a page or tapping a beat on a table. Those fingers are meant to be admired, while Mason suspects that his own grubby digits were fated for nothing more than milking cows or punching walls.</p><p>Worst of all, he finds himself giving a shit whenever Hamilton praises him (which is not often, thank god), and his nape lights up like a fucking 4th of July celebration, face as hot as a stove top in summer and mouth just as dry.</p><p>“Very good, Mason.”</p><p>“I’m impressed, Mr. Mason. You’re doing well.”</p><p>And, on one horrible, memorable occasion: “Well done, Mason. Seems like an old dog can learn new tricks after all. Perhaps we should work a reward system in for you.”</p><p>
  <em>Jesus fucking Christ.</em>
</p><p>Of course, the world doesn’t give a shit that he’s wrestling with the idea that he perhaps wants to jerk Hamilton off in the shower, too. Or wondering how it would feel to have those absurdly large hands push him down into a bed and take him apart that way. The world decides that on the 6th day - the day he decides to walk to Ham’s apartment - is also the day it should absolutely pour rain onto his head and leave him drenched to the bone by the time he gets to Hamilton’s doorstep.</p><p>Hamilton just stares at him blankly. Watches him drip.</p><p>“Mr. Mason.”</p><p>Then, very softly, huffs what might just a laugh. At his expense, no doubt, but hey. “I suppose you’ll be needing a change of clothes. Feel free to use my shower, while you’re at it.”</p><p>A barbed, back-handed offer of help, <em>but hey</em>.</p><p>The offer of clothes turn out to be silk pajama bottoms and a fucking anagrammed robe. No underpants, which, well, <em>alright</em>. Mason awkwardly shuffles out in the get up, tying the robe’s laces firmly around his waist, ignoring the 'HB' burning a brand into his chest. But the shower was great, at least - he hasn’t had decent water pressure in his place in months, and there’s something minty in Ham’s soap that makes his skin tingle.</p><p>So there he is, standing in Hamilton’s dining room, dressed in his clothes, smelling like him, and feeling … <em>squirmy</em>.</p><p>Ham made tea while he showered, and he stops mid-sip when Mason walks in. Runs his gaze down him like he’s checking for something. Then up, like he’s confirming what he found the first time. The squirminess continues.</p><p>“Mason,” Hamilton says, voice an even hum, blank as the wallpaper behind him. “Ready to start?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Mason mumbles in what he hopes doesn’t sound like a wheeze, because his lungs suddenly feel a little too tight. “Yeah, ready as ever, Ham.”</p><p>They’re well onto review now, rather than learning new material. This should be <em>easy</em> - Mason doesn’t have Hamilton’s absurd memory, but he’s certainly capable of parroting back basic legalese.</p><p>But he can’t. He fucking can’t. The silk pants he’s wearing are cool on his skin. They keep rubbing against his inner thighs, distracting him with the knowledge that these are Hamilton Burger’s pants, and he can’t stop himself from imagining the robe slipping, falling away with any wrong move he makes. What would Hamilton do, then? Probably nothing. <em>Realistically</em>, nothing. But what if he - god, he could do anything at this point, if it would at least put him out of his misery of wondering just what exactly he would do - with his hands, his mouth, his teeth - if he wanted to.</p><p>So Mason doesn’t move. Just sits like a plank in his seat and does his best to give Hamilton the satisfying answers he wants until his own clothes dry and he can get the fuck out of here.</p><p>Hamilton notices. Of course he does. He’d notice a needle in a haystack from ten miles away in the dark. After an hour of strained back and forth and Mason fumbling through half the questions, he finally reaches out a single finger and pushes the edge of the notebook Mason’s been flipping through down onto the surface of the table. “What’s the problem?”</p><p>He sounds impatient. That’s fair. </p><p>Mason frowns because Hamilton seems incapable of it. Somebody has to have some appropriate facial expression here. “Guess I didn’t get my head on straight today,” he offers sheepishly, “Drink wouldn’t hurt, though, if you’ve got something stronger than tea.”</p><p>He’s been good so far. Hasn’t drunk a drop in weeks for this case. But now, with Hamilton eyeing him like he wants to dissect him and the damn silk pants shifting over his groin like the softest damn things that’s ever touched him there, he could use a drop or two or twenty.</p><p>To his utter surprise, Hamilton stands, unfolding his slender body from the chair, calm and unhurried, and heads off towards what Mason could only presume to be his liquor cabinet.</p><p>“What do you usually drink?” Hamilton calls over his shoulder as he moves past him.</p><p>Mason has to close his eyes and resist crossing his legs as he breathes in the faint whiff of Hamilton’s cologne, reminding himself to get it fucking together. He knows he hasn’t gotten laid in weeks - has been avoiding Lupe like the plague, too - but this is just pathetic.</p><p>“Whiskey, if you have it? Bourbon if ya don’t, but honestly, i’m not picky,” he scrubs his fingers through his damp hair, and, with Lupe on the brain, quickly amends, “Ah, actually, well, no tequila, thanks. Don’t have a good relationship with that one.”</p><p>A few minutes later and Hamilton returns, tumbler in hand, filled with at least two fingers of whiskey. Thank god.</p><p>“Thanks,” Mason gratefully takes the drink, immediately takes two giant gulps before noting that it doesn’t taste as foul as usual, and it burns so much better as it goes down his throat. “Shit, this is the good stuff. I keep forgetting that you’re rolling in money.”</p><p>Hamilton hasn’t moved from his side, standing over him, and when Mason creaks his eyes upward, he sees that the man is staring at him, expression as unreadable and mild as ever.</p><p>This would probably be the part where Hamilton grimly informs him that the drink is poisoned and he’ll be dead any minute (hallelujah, honestly). But no. No, that’s not what happens.</p><p>“It occurs to me,” Hamilton says gently, like he’s choosing his words with care, “that I may have been pushing you too hard, Mason.”</p><p>Instead, Hamilton simply leans his hip against the table.</p><p>“You could use a break, yes?”</p><p>Instead, still holding Mason’s dumbfounded gaze, Hamilton reaches up and uses one hand to loosen his tie. Slow. Deliberate. Smirking.</p><p>“Something to take your mind off things.”</p><p>Mason doesn’t quite comprehend the situation for a moment. Just tracks the motions of the tie being tugged back and forth, loosening, unraveling, until it’s being tugged off. How has he never noticed how long Hamilton’s neck is? Slender and just-… just <em>so</em> nice to look at and-</p><p>When did his mouth drop open? <em>Fuck.</em></p><p>“Seems like you had something in mind, Ham.” Mason licks at his bottom lip while his heartbeat starts to erratically hammer away in the very tips of his ears. He’s still numbly holding the tumbler like an idiot, too, but can’t bear to abandon the one thing he has left to cling to.</p><p>Hamilton just hums, leaning forward to snag one of the ties of Mason’s robe. Pulls on it without warning until it slips free of the knot. Without it, the robe easily falls open, revealing Mason’s bare chest and every single goose bump that’s risen in it’s sudden exposure to the air. Hamilton sees everything. Scans everything, every imperfection and scar and hair like he’s a fucking specimen to be examined. He hums again.</p><p>“Do you want me to touch you, Perry?”</p><p>Well, he’s certainly never fucking called him by his first name before.. Mason is horrified at how effective it is at seeping down his spinal column, warmer than any possible alcohol he could be throwing back right now. ‘<em>Perry</em>.’ God, even the way his tongue wrapped around his name was flawless.</p><p>“I’m not-” Mason doesn’t really know how to respond, doesn’t know what to possibly <em>say</em> that would be correct in this scenario where a man has inexplicably decided to come on to him, of all people. He didn’t even shave today. “… I don’t think that’s-”</p><p>“No?” Ham tips his head, unruffled, cool, though as usual, he looks like he’s on the verge of laughing at him because he somehow knows <em>exactly</em> what’s going on in his calamity of a brain, “Perhaps I misread the situation, then. Should we get back to the bar exam?”</p><p>Studying or possibly getting off with a man who’s so out of his league that they’re not even on the same continent?</p><p>Mason might be a complete fucking idiot, but he knows what the better option is.</p><p>“No, fuck, no,” Mason finally finds the energy and wherewithal to move, and he uses it to down the rest of his drink and clamber to his feet. “No,” he repeats, meeting Hamilton’s eyes to hold them, surprisingly firm despite the fact that he’s never felt so off-balance and lost, “I’m not saying no.”</p><p>… <em>Perry Mason says after saying ‘no’ three times, what the everloving fuck is wrong with me?</em>  Horrified at his own apparent lack of any coherent thought, he turns in place, looking around wildly, “Where’s… where’s your bedroom? Let’s do this.”</p><p>The squirminess returns like a wave threatening to topple him. He’s running loose and wild, about to plunge into whatever the fuck this is with nothing to guide him. It doesn’t help that, as he looks back, he witnesses Hamilton’s lips curl into a full, genuine smile. Good thing he had already set the glass down, Mason suspects he may have broken the thing in his hand just then.</p><p>The thing is, Perry Mason knows people. He knows harmless people, and he knows people that will hunt and do whatever it takes to get what they want. Dangerous people. And without a doubt, Hamilton Burger is the latter. There’s something predatory in his smile. Something meant to be heeded.</p><p>“Follow me,” Hamilton says softly. Pushes off from the table and disappears into the darkness of his apartment.</p><p>And Perry Mason, god help him, does just that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The dimly lit hallway only gets dimmer the further away Mason walks from the bright shining oasis of the dining room. Mason’s lungs, in equal measure, steadily regress in their ability to properly draw in air with each step away from safety into Hamilton’s fucking lair.</p><p>By the time he pads quietly into the bedroom, Mason’s blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes to the darkness and wheezing a little to remind himself to breathe. He’s sweating slightly, too, yeah, okay, he won’t deny that. He’s out of his <em>depth</em>, he’s allowed to flounder a bit in the deep-end. And the whiskey is sloshing in his empty stomach like a reminder that he’s utterly incapable of making well-thought-out decisions. He should’ve eaten, maybe. Should’ve brought an umbrella, too, probably, if they're just airing out all the errors of his unfortunate ways.</p><p>But here they are. Perry Mason, embodiment of alcoholism and cigarette smoke, stands in the doorway wearing nothing but pajama pants and a nervous expression. Hamilton Burger, the very definition of Perry Mason's foil, waits for him by the side of his lush, queen-sized bed, outlined only by the streetlights outside his window and the occasional streak of far-off lightning.</p><p>There’s something in Ham’s hand. Mason can’t make out what it is, even when the lawyer sets it down on his bedside table.</p><p>Really, he can't make out much of anything, barring the perfect lines of Ham's shoulders and the grace with which Ham turns to face him. Not like he has to check if Mason followed him; of course he fucking did, stepped right into his trap knowing full well that Ham is going to eat him alive in the end and Mason will be the sorry schmuck asking him if he enjoyed his meal. </p><p>Hamilton wordlessly steps closer, crossing the room in long, confident strides. Mason does, too, can’t seem to help himself, and they meet half-way, hovering right by the end of the bed. When Hamilton gets close enough, his beautiful fingers reach out to curl around both halves of Mason's robe, pushing it up, off his shoulders.</p><p>It pools around Mason’s bare feet, but he can’t pay it any mind, what with Hamilton already running his fingertips down the undersides of his arms, thumbing at the soft skin on the back of his wrists. Like a kid playing with his new toy.</p><p>“Aren’t-” Mason says haltingly, voice loud, grating, sandpaper-y in the quiet, velvety black. He feels drunk on the shivers that Ham is drawing out of him. Light-headed as a fucking balloon. Who knew he was even sensitive there? “Shouldn’t you be asking if I’ve done this before?”</p><p>“Mason,” Hamilton starts to murmur with the air of long-suffering patience, and there it is again, that near-laughter in his clipped consonants and elegant intonations. “There’s nothing about you that isn’t clearly written on your face, your clothes, or your private record. If I thought you had done this before, I would have already fucked you.”</p><p>The first option he has in his range of available responses is flushing and tripping over Hamilton’s painfully blunt but absolutely correct assessment that in the realm of sex with men, he’s far up the river without oars, a sail, or even a fucking boat. Mason wisely goes with the second choice: mildly surprised indignation.</p><p>“You looked me up?” </p><p>“I did my homework.” Hamilton doesn’t miss a beat, nor do his fingers stop moving. Mason finds it harder and harder to suppress his reactions. Those hands, those <em>damn hands</em>, they slide down his sides, find his hipbones and press against them, cup the curves of his shoulders, marking, checking, inspecting, <em>touching</em>. All above the waist, all harmless and impersonal if need be. But between Hamilton’s large, wide, unfeminine palms trailing over his chest and Hamilton’s voice sinking down deep into his skin like the soothing rumble of a storm, Mason’s never felt more on edge. Electrified, like a stripped wire.</p><p>It's never felt more personal.</p><p>A particularly devilish stroke of Hamilton's thumbs over his nipples finally breaks him, <em>shocks him</em>. He chokes on whatever gurgle of a moan bubbles at the back of his throat. It seems to be exactly what Hamilton was waiting for, and he’s awarded another sharp smile in the darkness. It matches the cutting glint in his eyes, like a pair of knives.</p><p>“Fuck. Is- is that all this is? An after-school project or somethin’?” The squirming sensation gets worse then, gets into his ribs, tight as knots, threatens to crack a few. If Hamilton’s touch alone wasn’t making him stand straight, he would’ve doubled over with a wheeze.</p><p>Hamilton’s hands sweep up to his neck, cradling it as he brings their faces in dangerously close. Kissing close. Mason gulps. Hamilton probably feels it.</p><p>“Hm. That’s not how I see it, necessarily,” Ham purrs into the shrinking space between them, chuckling in a way that darkens his voice to a low thrum and makes Mason's cock twitch. Which is new.</p><p>“Why? Would you like me to work on you, Mason?”</p><p>His cologne is musky, woodsy, a fucking clear morning sky in the middle of a pine forest, whatever the fuck the salesgirl probably told him. But to Mason, it smells like a 5 course meal and his mouth is suddenly watering like he's starving for it. He breathes in slowly, breathes <em>him</em> in. Then:</p><p>“Not necessarily opposed. Though, gotta warn you,” Mason grunts weakly, unable to decide if he wants to look at Ham’s mouth or his eyes, glancing up and down in rapid succession like a jittery cornered animal, “Might take more hours than you’re used to. I’ve been told i’m, uh, a damn handful.” </p><p>Hamilton exhales sharply, digs his fingernails into the overheated nape of his neck, and says, “Then I suppose I’d better get started.”</p><p>Mason would have loved to consider how this odd little extended metaphor is the hottest bedroom talk he’s ever had the honor of being involved in. However, his thoughts promptly rush out of his head in the next moment when Hamilton leans, <em>shifts</em>, and closes the short distance in an easy swoop to press their lips together. </p><p>They’re surprisingly soft, Ham’s lips; lips that have curved around tea cups and faint smiles and Mason’s name, lips that are now insistently pushing against his, quickly joined by a warm tongue that licks at the seam of his mouth. The jitters that had been building up in the pit of Mason’s stomach ease a bit at the sensation because kissing- he can <em>do</em> kissing. This much he knows.</p><p>And if that isn’t enough-</p><p>“Let me in,” Hamilton’s whispered words drip down between them, warmed up honey oozing over his lips, down his throat. “Be a good boy.”</p><p><em>Fuck</em>, Mason’s whole body aches with the effect of the praise. <em>Fuck, yeah, that’ll do it.</em></p><p>If anyone else had dared to call him a boy, let alone a good one, Mason would’ve socked them in the jaw. With Hamilton, he wants to fall to his knees and do something crazy and stupid like suck his cock.</p><p>He can’t fight that. Doesn’t even think about it. There’s alcohol seeping into his bloodstream that's going straight to his head and a burning need he’s always been shit at denying himself. He wants this. Hamilton is offering. Mason is going to fucking take what he can get.</p><p>Shuddering, he obediently opens his mouth and lets his subsequent moan get swallowed down when Ham proceeds to lick his way inside, hot and wet and possessive. It’s absurdly easy, so much better than the bullshit kisses he had in college. Hamilton slides a hand up to hold his jaw, to turn his head just so, and then he’s nipping at his bottom lip. He bites hard enough that Mason flinches. Usually, if sex devolved into biting, that meant things were going by the way of wild and hungry, but with Ham, it's measured doses of pain. It's a steady progression, a downward spiral with Ham keeping him above-water the whole way down.</p><p>"You used my soap," Ham notes under his breath, sounding strangely pleased. Then sucks away at the hurt with a shushing sound, licking at the marks until Mason’s shaky groans slip back into incoherent noises that might be attempts to say ‘yes’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘more.’  </p><p>"You want more?" Hamilton pulls back, just enough to scan Mason's absolute disaster of a facial expression.</p><p>Apparently not incoherent enough. But Ham must like what he sees, because he rumbles in approval before tipping Mason's head to start searing a line of kisses up the cut of his jaw. Mason helplessly grips at the front of Ham's suit and just angles his head more, giving him more space to set his mouth to.</p><p>Mason stares up at the ceiling of Hamilton's bedroom a moment, coming back into himself just enough to be struck dumb by how deep in this he is. How handily Hamilton got him to come to his fucking bed without a fight. It's not enough to make him change his warped, incorrigible mind, though.</p><p>"Yes, f-fuck, yes," he mutters in response, sounding strained, sounding <em>needy </em>as Hamilton's teeth settle at his collarbone and bite down. It hurts. It'll bruise, purple and blue and every shade of blood imaginable. It's fucking fantastic. "Want more," he adds, already sounding like he's been fucked stupid from a few kisses alone. "C'mon, Ham."</p><p>"You don't even know what 'more' is," Hamilton breathes into his throat. His glorious hands tease at the seam of the silk pants without actually slipping beneath. It's unbearable. Mason thoughtlessly plucks at Ham's shirt, seeking skin, just <em>needing</em> it, <em>fuck</em>, whatever he can get.</p><p>A single button comes undone, like a little pop of pressure release, and Mason paws his way inside to feel Ham's bare chest, warm and real. He gets another bite for his trouble.</p><p>"So? I'm ah-" and Mason can't stop the laugh that surfaces up out of him unbidden. It's probably just nerves, but he feels like he's going insane, giggling while Hamilton's late evening stubble burns his neck raw, "I'm clearly a fast learner."</p><p>There's a second where he thinks he may not have convinced Hamilton. That maybe he's about to call this whole thing off and boot him out into the rain like the gutter cat he is.</p><p>"Yes. <em>Clearly,</em>" Hamilton says eventually, humoring him (and thus saving Mason's already shattered ego from being ground into dust). He gives the loose ties of Mason's pants a pull and his chest a light nudge, stepping out of Mason's reach. "Get these off. And then get on the bed."</p><p>Mason is ready to salute and 'sir yessir' all the way there but settles for scrambling out of his pants without falling on his face.</p><p>A few blurry moments later, Mason is on his hands and knees atop Hamilton Burger's bed, naked and leaking pre-cum like he's desperate for it (because he's desperate for it). Hamilton is still dressed, hasn't even taken his jacket off. He even fixed that single button. Ham's also not touching him, which is significantly worse than the self-conscious embarrassment that's threatening to overthrow Mason's lust the longer he waits in the silence of the room.  </p><p>There's a snap, a rotating noise; a jar being opened. Something flowery wafts past him; maybe lavender. And Mason's stomach clenches at the realization that now he knows what Ham had put on the bedside table earlier. </p><p>If it weren't for the hand slipping over his spine, tracing each and every vertebrae on the way and grounding him in the moment, he would have been certain the room was spinning faster than a tilt-a-whirl. Instead, the slide of Ham's fingers, down down down, is actually like a rollercoaster, creaking up up up, ramping up anticipation, cresting the apex at the small of his back, seconds before the plummet down.</p><p><em>Please</em>, a crazed voice croons in the back of Mason's head, <em>pleasepleaseplease.</em></p><p>Hamilton's made-for-fucking-radio voice, though, it's a damn lighthouse in the bleak darkness when he finally speaks again.</p><p>"Two siblings, a brother and a sister, decided to start a bike shop with their cousin."</p><p>
  <em>pleas-what?</em>
</p><p>Mason immediately groans, lowering his head in exasperation, "Don't. Fucking don't, Ham, this is-"</p><p>Ham's hand stops. Stops right at the summit, at the tailbone. Just. <em>Stops. </em>'Sorry, folks, looks like we're having some mechanical difficulties-'</p><p>It's like a sucker punch to the solar plexis. Mason can't fucking see straight.</p><p>"One month ago," Hamilton, the <em>bastard</em>, patient as ever with a cadence that could run a phone sex line just being <em>wasted</em>, continues, "purporting to act on behalf of the LLC, the cousin sold the LLC’s farmland to a third-party buyer. Only after the cousin deposited the sale proceeds into the LLC bank account did the brother and sister learn of the sale. The brother objects. Wants out of the business."</p><p>He's going to kill him. This- what the fuck, what the ever loving <em>fuck- </em>he wants off the damn ride, <em>that's</em> for fucking sure-</p><p>"What type of LLC was created, Perry?"</p><p>"<em>Fuck you."</em></p><p>Ham has the nerve to huff in amusement and Mason almost <em>whines</em> as his hand pulls off. He thinks for an unhinged, furious second that this is all this is going to be: some weird sadistic study session while he sweats and begs to be touched. </p><p>"Wait," he mumbles in protest, "just-"</p><p>But Hamilton doesn't make him wait long for the 'more' he had been asking for; doesn't even warn him as he slides a careful finger right along the crease of his ass. Even anticipated, it's ... unexpected. Unfamiliar. Mason jumps, shudders, but the finger doesn't stop. It's slippery, warm, and then all of a sudden, it's pressing right against his hole, massaging the ring of muscles there with a very firm touch, smearing slick all over. </p><p>Then pushing inside.</p><p>Inside <em>him.</em></p><p>"-a<em>n</em><em>ghgod."</em></p><p>"What type of LLC?" Hamilton repeats over Mason's strangled noises, infuriating, calm, even, reciting the bar exam like he doesn't have Mason's naked body at his damn mercy. Like he can wait all day while Mason squirms on his bed like an absolute sucker.</p><p>"<em>Fuckin' ... </em>member-managed," Mason grits out, fingers curling into fists in the bedspread, breathing deep as Hamilton's finger begins to move, sliding in and out, stretching him. It would probably feel worse if he hadn't downed that drink before, but even with the dreamy, floaty numbness he's sinking into, he's absurdly hyper-aware of everything Hamilton is doing to him. How <em>careful </em>he's being. "There wasn't an appointment of managers, w-wasn't stated otherwise, so member-managed is <em>ffffucking</em> presumed."</p><p>"Excellent." Hamilton, in response, eases his finger in further, <em>curling</em> it until Mason sees stars light up in his foggy vision. "You're doing so well, Perry. So good."</p><p>To be fair, though, this was <em>not</em> something he signed up for and he can't resist a breathless grumble, "H-hell of a way to take my mind off things."</p><p>Hamilton's silent answer to that is to work a second finger inside him, pushing it in deep. He hits a point that turns Mason hot and cold all at once. It's sinking into a hot bath. It's frost bite dragging its nails over him. Mason's stammering gasp goes high-pitched and his arms buckle, forcing him to sink down to his elbows. </p><p>"Ffffgh," Mason adds for good measure, rubbing his forehead against his arm to distract himself. He realizes in a daze that that's probably why Hamilton was messing around with the exam questions, too. To take his mind off things. How perfectly fucking thoughtful of him.</p><p>Though it's clear Hamilton wants to take his time. Ease him into this. Mason, on the other hand, wants his first queer fuck to send him to oblivion on an express train with busted breaks. Who was he if he didn't insist on doing everything wrong the first time around? Who was he if he didn't take the worst possible option for himself like the punishment he clearly deserved?</p><p>Seems like Ham's picking up on his message, though.</p><p>"... Do you know what you look like right now?" Hamilton asks lightly, continuing to work Mason open, fucking him with his fingers until Mason is panting for it, pushing back against him.</p><p>Chest down, ass up? Yeah, Mason can fucking imagine. </p><p>"You look on the verge of falling apart, Perry," Hamilton continues, daring to skim a third finger at his entrance, testing. Mason thinks he might be drooling. He reaches down to touch himself, to keep from fucking rutting down onto the bed like a dog. Hamilton just smacks his hand away.</p><p>"One stitch away from ripping at the seams. What will happen if-" and Hamilton's fingers cruelly pull out of him without warning, leaving him empty, "I snip that last string?"</p><p>It's too much. It's an overdose and overstimulation and anticipation and just <em>wanting to fucking cum</em> all crowding in his throat and Mason thinks he'll suffocate if Ham doesn't do something about it. Driven by the lust boiling in his veins, Mason looks blearily over his shoulder; twists his body just in time to see Hamilton pull his erection out of his expensive trousers and slick himself up with a methodical, unhurried ease. </p><p>Oh. Oh. <em>Okay</em>.</p><p>Hamilton's dark eyes meet his. His hips rolls forward to slide his cockhead all the way up the seam of Mason's ass. The tip catches briefly on the edge of his hole and Mason flinches like he's been electrocuted. It feels ... hot. It feels huge.</p><p>"You want this?"</p><p>"I-" Mason would be happy to respond if all the blood in his pathetic body wasn't rushing to his groin with a fervid urgency. "I, fuck."</p><p>"The great Perry Mason, finally with nothing to say," Hamilton spreads his hands out over the globes of Mason's rear, spreading him apart as he lines his cock right up against his entrance. Teasing at it, but not pushing in. "Go on. Ask for it."</p><p>Mason gives up on his trembling elbows. Just lets his chest flatten right against the bed while Hamilton obligingly holds his hips up for support. "Want this to fucking hurt, Ham. Fuck... seams, fuck stitches. I want you to ruin me. Want the shit in my head to just ... <em>stop</em>."</p><p>His answer is more raw and vulnerable than he means it to be, but Hamilton doesn't seem to mind in the least. </p><p>"Good," is his soft response. He waits while Mason releases a shaky exhale, gives him just that beat to relax. Which is, again, awfully fucking considerate of him when on his next breath, Ham's thrusting inside, burying himself to the hilt in one unbearable slide. It wrenches a guttural noise from Mason's lungs that rumbles around like gravel in his gasping mouth. It's louder in the dark. It's like he's <em>screaming</em>.</p><p>"<em>Ham-!"</em></p><p>"Shh," Hamilton doesn't give him even a moment to catch his breath. Mason had demanded hurt like the masochist he is, Hamilton is showing that he's ready to deliver. "You're taking me so well already, Mr. Mason."</p><p>Hamilton rotates his hips briefly, pulling out enough to thrust shallowly back into Mason's flushed, hypersensitive body before humming once in satisfaction and picking up a sharp, brutal pace that sends Mason to the damn moon.</p><p>"Do you know how tight you feel, Perry? Do you know how good you are?"</p><p>Mason just shakes his head, he doesn't know, has no fucking <em>idea </em>about anything beyond the feeling of Hamilton stuffing him full.</p><p>Their skin slaps together as Hamilton ruthlessly fucks into him, digging his hands into Mason's waist so he can keep him steady. He snaps his hips forward again and again and takes Mason apart until he's an unraveled, moaning, shivering mess.</p><p>"Does it hurt?" Ham murmurs at one point, draping himself over Hamilton's sweat-shiny back, pressing the question into his shoulder.</p><p>Mason's brain is short-circuiting and he's pushing his face right into the sheets to muffle his cries. But he <em>tries </em>to respond with a frazzled, "<em>Ahhngh, g-god."</em></p><p>Hamilton tries again, shifts his thrusts into a new angle that hits Mason so deep and so <em>good</em> that he keens. "Do you like it?"</p><p>"<em>Yeeeesss," </em>Mason gasps out hoarsely, "<em>Fuck, </em>yes."</p><p>There's nothing. Blissful nothing. No trial, no string in a box; nothing from the outside world to interfere in what Hamilton is giving to him, over and over and over, like a gift with a pretty bow on top. Just heat and pleasure and Hamilton's mouth on his ear, whispering praise like the devil to a sinner, and his thick cock inside him, splitting him in half like he was made to be cracked apart from the start.</p><p>Mason comes in a hoarse, blubbering rush when Hamilton's hand wraps around his length, whiting out and dissolving and putting himself back together again in Hamilton's beautiful, huge, <em>manly</em> fucking hands while Hamilton chases his own release with short, shallow huffs and breaths. He grips Mason's hair when he finally spills out, pulling his head back to curve his body into a lewd arch. And if Mason was half-coherent, he would have sworn that the brush of lips on the back of his neck was a kiss. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't remember getting home that night, but he apparently does, because he wakes up the next morning, in his own bed, to a bright, sunny day, a deep-seeded ache in his ass that sizzles all the way up his spine, and a determination to get Hamilton to fuck him again because hey, why do something good but probably very stupid <em>once</em> when you can do it twice?</p><p>Hamilton greets him at the door later that night and - "Let's review the final two questions today." - has the <em>gall</em> to try to get Mason Perry to fucking study when the only thing he thought about all day was the absurdly good sex that they had had not 24 hours prior. </p><p>"Let's start with a warm-up," Mason returns with a grin, shutting the door behind him and throwing his hat in the vague direction of the coat rack. He pushes into Hamilton's space, intending to bully the man into submission (and believing, stupidly, that he can), but promptly finds himself at a loss when Hamilton stops him dead with a hand to chest and actually pushes him back. All the way against the door, which Mason hits with a soft 'oof.' </p><p>He looks down bemusedly at the hand currently pinning him. "That a no?"</p><p>Which, fair if it is, but also, <em>not fair </em>because he showered again before he came, put on the cleanest shirt he had, even. Hell, he <em>sh</em><em>aved</em>. That was real effort on his part.</p><p>Hamilton tilts his head at him curiously, "I don't make a habit of going back for seconds, Mason."</p><p>Which, Mason would like to point out, is not a no. But something like panic flutters up unpleasantly in his chest anyway at the thought of Ham using and losing him. It's not like he would blame him, nor would it exactly be the first time Mason got the short end of the stick in that regard. But Hamilton Burger greatly estimated how stubborn he could be. And how stupidly, absurdly, insanely unrelenting.</p><p>So Mason leans back against the wall, rolling his shoulders just enough that his shirt stretches out. The motion reveals some of his collarbone... along with the whopper of a bite mark Hamilton left there, angry and dark. Hamilton's eyes flick down to look, which Mason counts as a win. He grins wider, "I'll be honest, Ham, I took ya as the kid who always did the extra credit, y'know?"</p><p>Apparently, that's not the anticipated response, because Ham raises a surprised, if not slightly exasperated eyebrow. "Mr. Mason, where <em>do</em> you keep all that ego?" </p><p>"Same place I put my wit and charm, I imagine," Mason shoots back, knowing very well that he looks ... how he looks. </p><p>To his shock, Hamilton actually laughs. The corners of his eyes crease pleasantly when he does, and Mason is almost too stunned to properly react when the other man lifts the hand from his chest to his chin. Shit, was Hamilton always capable of reacting like a normal person, or is this a strain for the man? Does his face hurt? Is he gonna need to rest for a while after displaying that much human emotion?</p><p>It's... yeah, it's <em>nice. </em></p><p>Mason loses the rest of the thread as Hamilton glides a broad thumb over his bottom lip. There's still the faintest of bruises in the shape of teeth there, and it elicits a softly pleased hum from Hamilton when he sees it.</p><p>"And how do you keep getting exactly what you want, despite all odds? Do you have your ego to thank?" Hamilton asks in a murmur, clearly trying not to look smug and failing spectacularly. </p><p>There's nothing true about that. It's bullshit. Mason hasn't gotten what he wanted since the day he shipped off to Europe with a gun and an unanswered prayer. But. They're not here to exchange sob stories.</p><p>Mason forces a confident quirk to his lips like it doesn't take every ounce of energy to pretend his life hasn't been a consistent stream of anguish of his own making.</p><p>"I think that's just dumb fucking luck."</p><p>"Yes." Hamilton steps closer, slips a thigh right between Mason's legs to rock their bodies together in a slow, dragging motion. It's probably just to hear Mason gasp and see him helplessly grind back onto him, seeking that bone-numbing friction, which is exactly the reaction he gets. Hamilton smiles knowingly, "That must be it."</p><p>Mason gets what he wants that night, thanks to dumb fucking luck and Hamilton's inexhaustible patience. Hamilton fucks him right there against the door, fucks him through the ache of the previous evening and leaves him with more bite marks along his chest and collarbone. It's sloppy, all hungry kisses and finicky shirt buttons and Mason is loud with his shameless moaning and Hamilton's fingers are perfect, just fucking perfect. Toe-curling blindness, leaving Mason numb as novocaine and twice as dopey and satisfied.</p><p>Hamilton still makes him study, in the end. But Mason thinks it's worth it, honestly, because as he gets up to leave by midnight, Ham stops him, just briefly; just to run his fingers gently through his hair once and murmur, "You're been doing so well, Mr. Mason. Beyond all expectations. And I don't think luck has anything to do with it."</p><p>It's easily the worst thing anyone has told Mason in his life and the soft, affectionate sincerity rattles him right down to the ratty fibers of his shit heart. Mason doesn't think he properly catches his breath the whole way home, has to clutch at his chest as he stumbles into bed, and his face burns right to the point when he finally passes out on his pillow.</p><p>He won't admit, won't <em>ever</em> confess that the careful touch of a man's fingernails running along his scalp haunts him more than all the nastiest things he's seen as an investigator put together.</p><p>Two days before the exam, Mason gets him back for it by crawling under the dining table on his knees mid-study session and sucking Hamilton off. He takes his cock as deep as it can go, bobs his head and brushes a shy hand under his balls until the man shivers and comes down his throat. It's not a good blowjob, being his first and all, but fuck if it isn't determined, and it can't be that bad if Hamilton's sitting back in his seat looking breathless and stunned while Mason sits back on his heels and licks come from his lips like a cat that got the cream. </p><p>"How was that?"</p><p>"Almost perfect," Hamilton slips the praise to him like a blade in the gut. Then twists it when he pets him again, sweeping his bangs to the side and smoothing his hand along his head to the back of his burning neck. Just once.</p><p>He didn't have to lie to him like that. Mason knows that. But it was so fucking kind that he did.</p><p>The dining room, the outside, Mason's head static, it all goes quiet in the motion of Hamilton's hand. All, it seems, so Mason's can hear the almost imperceptible sob hiding in the hitch of his next breath.</p><p>Mason ends up crawling into Hamilton's lap to kiss him stupid, get <em>himself</em> kissed stupid, and feels a funny sort of gratitude bubble up in him that he doesn't have the vocabulary to say aloud.</p><p>And they <em>still</em> fucking finish studying that night.</p><p>The last run-through on the last night - the last time Hamilton can check if he has his shit together - there's no fooling around. Mason parrots back the whole exam from memory, answers every question Hamilton throws at him, and they fill out the final documents he needs to submit before the testing board in order to get his law license. </p><p>"That seems to be it," Hamilton says eventually, "I think you're ready."</p><p>He <em>should</em> be jumping for joy - ding dong the review session is dead - and yet Mason's mostly just harboring disappointment, which he is very much aware he shouldn't be doing. This was good, this fucking-around-with-Ham episode has been <em>great</em>, but their little project has clearly come to an end. So like a functioning adult, he shoves his gloom off to the side where the rest of his feelings about other people go to wither away into dust. </p><p>"Only thing left to do is take the damn thing," Mason agrees, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I guess i'll get out of your hair, then. Exam's fucking early tomorrow."</p><p>They both stand with a scrape of chairs on hardwood. Ham actually walks him to the door, seeing him off. He feels the warmth of his presence the whole short distance there, as clear as the bruises still blooming under his clothes. Mason gets his jacket, grabs his hat, is about halfway through the door without the two of them saying another word to each other, when Hamilton abruptly stops him with a tap of his fingertips to his elbow.</p><p>"Mason."</p><p>He sounds the same as ever: aloof, cold, dry. And yet Mason stops dead, holds his breath to listen for the cool, clipped rejection that was always waiting for him at the end of this short little detour he decided to take with the assistant district attorney.</p><p>Hamilton waits the length of a heartbeat, pulls back to tuck his hands into the pockets of his pants. Then: "After your exam, if you have some time, I'd like you to come back here. To my apartment. I'd recommend bringing an overnight bag."</p><p>Hat held tightly in his hand like a lifeline, Mason turns to look over his shoulder in confusion. "For what?"</p><p>Hamilton Burger and Mason Perry are two very different people. They don't fit together. They're square holes and round pegs. A masterpiece and a piece of shit. A beautiful thunderstorm and the puddle you step into the next day. Incompatible. But sometimes, Mason says something that manages to make Ham laugh. Sometimes, Ham's fingers comb through his hair and quiet the monsters in Mason's head that he keeps locked away in there. </p><p>Hamilton just smiles, handsome and flawless. Looks at Mason like he's memorizing him to save for later.</p><p>"Your reward."</p><p>It's dumb fucking luck. It's breaking habits. Sometimes, it's just pieces inexplicably fitting together anyway. And those are the facts.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so so much for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and feel free to come find me on tumblr at yilinglaowhoops if you wanna be like, "hey what the fuck."</p>
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